


When silence sings a different tune

by i_gacha_bro



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Domestic Bickering, Draco does good parenting, Draco is levelheaded, Draco is not ooc (portrayal based on TTC), F/M, Fluff, Gen, Not Canon Compliant, Professional setting, Scorpius approves of you, Unresolved Sexual Tension, but could get too overbearing and mouthy at times, he's constantly concerned over reader, here be my poor attempt at comedy, hints of Scorpius/Albus, i wrote harry as a thunderbitch here, it's 2021 and i still dont know how to do tagging, reader is smart, redemption arc, self-indulgent fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:01:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28631412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_gacha_bro/pseuds/i_gacha_bro
Summary: "So," you clasped your hands together, "which circle of hell do you think has a boiler room?"Mr Malfoy mulls over this, and he was resolved to an answer with a noncommittal shrug, "9th? The sinners condemned with the heaviest weight of judgement are put in the lowest level, I believe."You gave him a straight face, "Why would you even think Hell has a boiler room in the first place?"Draco goes silent, then shaking his head as of mock frustration."Just finish your manuscripts by the end of your shift."
Relationships: Draco Malfoy & Reader, Draco Malfoy/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	1. Playing with fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Was. Mr Malfoy was a Death Eater. Little words matter, and at least you already knew he wasn't an ill-intentioned man. He had the modicum of professional decency and politeness towards you. Despite the stress and pressure his work offered, he had enough willpower to retain his rationality._
> 
> _You understood that your discomfort was not exclusive to yours. That changes today._
> 
> _Tonight, more like._

It was well over a few months ago. You missed your internship days during orientations when you still weren't stuck with your new higher-up, Draco Malfoy.

  


Not actually stuck. The Minister's _'Muggle-Wizard Occupational Solidarity Program'_ arranged that. It would've sounded nice if the implication and nature of your new boss' [professional] relationship wasn't awkward.

  


He is the current Head of the International Magical Office of Law - _ironic_. Meanwhile, some people you met over the months made a point of mentioning it to you that he was infamous. The whole clan of Malfoys were _infamous._

  


It was no secret, and every other rendition of rumors you heard ring true by the common trope you noticed in these stories - he _was_ a Death Eater. And to your surprise, Death Eaters were fascists, racists, segregationists; incited wars twice in the history that endangered the Muggles, and fellow wizards alike.

  


You were a Muggle.

  


_It was awkward._

  


Maybe the Minister put you up to this and assigned you to Mr Malfoy to put him up in an uncomfortable, and humiliating position for the irony of it all. Mrs Granger-Weasley had a history of past prejudices from Mr Malfoy, you had heard - and had read the accounts from the accumulated source materials and biographies in the Ministry Library and Archives.

  


You were literally working for the reinstated _nazi._

  


He was an enigma. He never really spoke much, nor had any intention of engaging in a discussion proactively with _anyone._ It was an incredible feat not having to utter a word in an extensive stretch of hours working in the office. 

  


It wasn't the kind of silence you wanted. _You wanted a comfortable silence._

  


He was the sulky and scowling type - but never really expressed any vocal distaste, or chastisement, or raised his voice at you when he got too _antsy_ over some pressing matters. But underneath the wrinkled demeanor of his, he held a weathered soul - brought about his old age, or stress... _or both._

  


Or at maybe it was your eyes fooling you into pitying him.

  


He could use some sleep. And therapy. _Lots of it._

  


_"How may I help you?"_

  


His crisp voice reduced your inquisitive state into a wakeful and conscious one, as though crunching an eggshell beneath the hard soles of a pair of Oxfords. 

  


It jolted you, shook your nerves awake than any coffee could.

  


"No..." you shook your head frantically, "no, just thinking. I'm writing the draft for the international intervention and liability for the case investigation on Egypt...of the, uh, Aurors." _Liar._

  


You couldn't even stare straight through him. He thoroughly intimidated you, and you don't want to befall under harsh judgements that you were callous.

  


* * *

  


Over the next few days, it remained the same. Then days turned to weeks. Weeks sans: your rude staring, real conversation apart from the brief exchange of words, or any real and mutual acknowledgement of each other's presences.

  


The rut sickened you, and it was about time it has to stop and do something about it.

  


_Was_. Mr Malfoy was a Death Eater. Little words matter, and at least you already knew he wasn't an ill-intentioned man. He had the modicum of professional decency and politeness towards you. Despite the stress and pressure his work offered, he had enough willpower to retain his rationality.

  


You understood that your discomfort was not exclusive to yours. That changes today.

  


Tonight, more like.

  


* * *

  


Both of you worked in late hours: you, finalizing paperworks he's going to introspect and sign over; and him, writing an appeal to intervene with the artifact overseas, suspected to be a Horcrux from a late Death Eater.

  


His thumb and forefinger rubbed his temples in firm whorls. It stressed him out, with the accountability of it all. Just in time, you have retrieved the kettle from the fireplace to pour hot water on the teapot, set to make some chamomile tea for your boss.

  


The faint clinking in front of his desk told him as much. His weary gaze flitted on the cup of tea, then to yours, searching for your demeanor.

  


He may seem vulnerable at the moment, but his furrowed brows made you want to shirk away. You didn't, though.

  


"Chamomile tea, Mr Malfoy."

  


He hums, pauses for a moment as he stared at you, then takes the cup.

  


"This is unnecessary," he says, voice creaking after he had been silent for the rest of the day. That surprised him as well, making him wince and cringe at the sound.

  


You nodded, "I know, I just wanted to."

  


"Wanted to because you saw the _necessity_ ," he then inclines the cup towards you in lieu of a toast. Mr Malfoy was a smart man, earning the merit of being in his current position. Maybe witty.

  


_Just a bit._

  


You chuckled at his words under your breath, inclining the cup of your own towards him. "I could say the same for you, sir."

  


He lets out a dragged out sigh, revealing years of his exhaustion by his trade and experience tolling his bones. _He never does that with you_. "Not if it's for the sake of his selfish redemption...and for the sake of clearing the namesake and scrutiny his _son_ does not deserve."

  


That was heavy.

  


You visualized the younger version of Mr Malfoy, his _son_ , getting called and jeered at due to the speculation that he takes after his father, who was once a _Death Eater._

  


He realized what he said postmaturely before he gave you a gruff and dismissive wave of his hand.

  


_"Forget it,"_

  


You didn't even _think_ with the possible repercussions of your own words, hardly skipping a beat. 

  


"You're trying, sir. That counts for something."

  


That hangs in the air.

  


When he offered you a lingering stare, you gave him a half-assed shrug before treading on carefully with your next words, "I'm not saying no one would forget what you did in the past." 

  


_A beat._

  


You continued, "Indoctrination is imposed on children to be weaponized for the sake of orthodoxical complicity. You were just a victim, sir. You were a mere _child_ then, and you're trying as an _adult_ now...and as a father. 

  


"The international affairs is in your best interests, not to mention your son's reputation." _You were finally driving the nail in your coffin._ "You treat me well as your Muggle cohort, too. And I think your attempt for redemption does not come from the place of _selfishness_."

  


He went silent for a while, mulling your words over. If he felt strongly with what he is _feeling_ upon your words, he hid it well with pronounced stoicism as he returns his piercing gaze to the parchment at hand. His eyes ran a mile, skimming his own paperwork to keep himself occupied after he gave you his anticipatory gaze _generously_ while you spoke of his integrity... _and humored him._

  


When he doesn't speak in the next minute, _much less a feedback or physical reaction,_ more silence and tension ensued. You don't know whether your statement was too prying, too personal, too direct...or maybe, in the most hopeful and more optimistic lobe of your brain, _it was reasonable._

  


You almost gave up on your mind's musings that the plan was already a lost cause, and you could never recover half the comfort the awkward silence had offered since you started working for Mr Malfoy months ago.

  


Until the pressure of his own task lightened to a simmer as the night falls deeper, and his head looks forward unto the door with a familiar expression.

  


He uttered four words that shocked your systems:

  


_"I suppose you're right."_

  


And it all made a difference.


	2. When respect goes a long way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _His face fell, and that's when you fucking panicked._
> 
> _Your brain shortcircuited as it tried to come up something elaborate, something coherent as your hands had all but trembled. And when you went all tongue-tied when you are unable to utter something, you could settle for anything to say to him._
> 
> _I'mfuckingsorry-_
> 
> _The humor in his eyes returned promptly, its cusps crinkled at the sight of your physical dilemma. And he was chuckling at you._
> 
> _"Ah, I called just as much. A frog in a hot cauldron."_

After he said those words that night, he got up, fixed his things, and bade goodbye.

_"Those documents could wait for tomorrow. Go home,"_ he said before leaving.

* * *

The following day, the unspoken words told as much. The air was different this time, wedging between comfortable and vulnerable due to the conversation you both had.

He definitely doesn't look tense this time, and so did you. You gave yourself a proverbial pat on the back for your intuition last night. He worked lighter and casually, and you could see how his brows relaxed its creases if you spoke to him as you submitted the documents to him.

He intimidated you still, but none that scared you ultimately.

You continued to work out the residual discomfort between the both of you by fixing him tea, _again._

You placed it on his desk, and the tea of your own onto yours.

Proceeding with your work, you looked back on the parchment, the quill creating a fat blot of ink onto the sheet which obscured the word. You could never get used to these old things. You don't even know if it's against the policy if you used a ball-point pen. _Pesky stuff._

You would kill to use a fountain pen.

Beside your desk, Mr Malfoy's slightly elevated one due to the platform, your boss overlooked your current psychological warfare as he sipped on his tea. If you turned your head at him, maybe you could see the smallest quirk of his lips in a lopsided smirk, apparently amused. 

But you were spared with the alien sight when you remained still and tense with irritation.

_You were finalizing your draft._

In hopes to alleviate your nerves quietly as you brooded over your mistake, you picked up your cup of chamomile tea. And that's when your good, dominant arm made a huge mistake.

Your wrist snagged the ink pot where your teacup previously sat by, and now the black soot spilled onto the document before you could snatch it away.

That's when you saw red.

_Goddamned, callous fuck. Useless piece of fucking shit. All over again._

Your ears perked up when it caught a small noise. The office you worked in was not known to be ambient or noisy, so that could only belong to Mr Malfoy.

"You ought to keep your muttering with that language," he quipped.

It was deep, _reverbrating,_ and it grated against his lax vocal chords. He was _chuckling._

What you wouldn't give to hear it again...even your whole _paycheck_.

_What the hell are you thinking?_

To be fair, maybe just a quarter of it.

__

__

That's when you hissed apologetically, face blanching at his query, "Sorry."

__

__

He nods in understanding, _like the father he was._ Maybe that's where he got his patience? Parenting? _Damn, his son is lucky._

__

__

You fumbled with something to wipe your table with, and you didn't even notice Mr Malfoy get up from his seat.

__

__

He mutters something under his breath, just behind you. You turned to look at him and saw that he held a wand between his dexterous fingers. Before your eyes got too intrusive, racking and memorize the details of his serenely amused yet serious expression that struck a chord within your ribcage, you stared back at your desk.

__

__

It was clean, not a smear of ink remained which returned to the inkpot.

__

__

"May I see the parchment?"

__

__

The silent coaxing of his voice took you a while to get in your senses as you let those smooth words filter into your ears. It was oddly reassuring. You refused meeting his gaze, like you were a frisky kid all over again, breaking your mum's ceramic figurine. You couldn't pinpoint what you feel, _it wasn't guilt._ But you were sure you were flustered over your past clumsiness.

__

__

_Or maybe that's not what you're flustered about._

__

__

Shutting off your brain for a while sure would be a nice change.

__

__

When he's done with his troubleshooting measure, he stares up at you.

__

__

_Don't. Do. That._

__

__

"Don't do that," you could almost hear the faintest amusement return in his voice.

__

__

You blinked up at him sheepishly, "Do what?"

__

__

He tucks his _wand_ away, "Like a frog in a hot cauldron."

__

__

You squinted at him in an amused incredulity, "Correction. I'm not a frog, just hot. I could be the cauldron."

__

__

He gave you a small quirk of his lips, "I admire the confidence," he shoots back equally.

__

__

And that was the moment you made the third mistake of the day.

__

__

You _fucking_ nudged his arm like you would to a close friend when they said something funny, or a teasing remark directed at you. It fell on both categories, but your most rational psyche tells you, _tutting in disappointment,_ that the gesture is not justified when done upon the person you hold at a high esteem and regard.

__

__

His face fell, and that's when you _fucking_ panicked.

__

__

Your brain shortcircuited as it tried to come up something elaborate, something coherent as your hands had all but trembled. And when you went all tongue-tied when you are unable to utter something, you could settle for _anything_ to say to him.

__

__

_I'mfuckingsorry-_

__

__

The humor in his eyes returned promptly, its cusps crinkled at the sight of your physical dilemma. And he was chuckling at you.

__

__

"Ah, I called just as much. _A frog in a hot cauldron._ "

__

__

You exclaimed, in indignation and humor in equal parts: "What?!"

__

__

You didn't make the same mistake of shoving his forearm again. You did, on another hand, blew him a raspberry, which he responded with a shake of his head as his demeanor slipped back into the semblance of serious professionalism when he sat by his desk, resuming his work.

__

__

Or at least that's what you thought when he gave small fits of breathy chuckles under his breath time to time.

__


	3. A hunger that could be reasoned with

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _That's when one day, you thought about bringing a homemade lunch and started your very own 'case study analysis over Mr Malfoy's eating patterns and habits; whether or not he eats at all during the mandated lunch breaks in the Ministry.'_
> 
> _But that's just the working title._

Your grandmother used to say, that food brings people together, and unites them despite of where they hailed from, or whatever belief they stood for. You knew it wasn't a crock of bull when you administered the theory yourself.

And the subject, being Mr Malfoy.

* * *

Picking up on the little things about Mr Malfoy had been very easy and noticeable - his mannerisms, the exact hour of the day when he starts to stifle a yawn, when he leaves and gets back to his office after a meeting...well of course, you knew the latter so well because you were his assistant slash _paralegal._

But arranging his daily timetable doesn't include when he eats his lunch. It was an empty, unwritten field which could only stand for his break time. And when he does eat, however... _where?_

You never saw him in the Ministry's dining hall, nor get out of the office during breaks. _Does he bring homemade lunches with him?_

You imagined him, alone in the office, wordless as he munches away on his lonely sandwich in peace. The swell of pity you felt for the reclusive man would have made you cringe, but you couldn't conceal your amusement over his misery well enough.

That's when one day, you thought about bringing a homemade lunch and started your very own _case study analysis over Mr Malfoy's eating patterns and habits; whether or not he eats at all during the mandated lunch breaks in the Ministry._

But that's just the working title.

When the bell started to go off like giant chimes echoing among the Ministry, indicating the time of the day and the employees' lunch break, his eyes surreptitiously followed you, and observe you leaving the office.

However, to his surprise, you took out the airtight container wrapped with a checkered cloth out of your satchel, and unfurled the article to reveal a still warm lasagna.

* * *

_No. He doesn't eat lunch. You know that now._

You often catch him side-eyeing you occasionally that would have made you snort as you ate. But his face didn't give way that he was, in fact, _hungry._

Or maybe he wasn't... _you could never know_. He had a considerably incredible feat of maintaining his composure and stoicism all the while you ate your lunch.

He doesn't speak, much less make a noise. How could he resist the aroma of lasagna wafting throughout the office? There isn't much to know about what he's currently thinking when his face remains blank.

_Mr Stonefaced Malfoy..._

He just wrote on his papers, minding his business, until when you couldn't keep it up any longer when you felt defeat and pity over your boss.

"Man," you groan.

You could almost, _almost_ catch the smile in his voice as he goes: 

_"What concerns you at the moment?"_

Being the dirty little bastard that he was, acting all oblivious that he knows nothing about your little experiment and that he knew it from the get-go, you emitted a puff of air in frustration.

"You know, these rumours about you are ridiculous. How could you still be a Death Eater when you're _starving to death?"_

_What a weird way to reveal you have a death wish._

He didn't laugh, nor smile, nor said something quick and witty that never failed to make your stomach stir pleasantly every time. He just _fucking_ stared at you like a perched Siberian husky, while the creeping tension between the both of you was a timebomb.

His eyes squinted at yours, _"That was slightly backhanded, but I'll share your confidence."_

"Right, sorry..." you receded in your seat sheepishly, and apologetically, _as you should_. "I just...I hope..."

Words didn't come out, in fear that Mr Malfoy would lash out at you - which he never did before.

_There's always a first time for that if you're going to continue testing his patience like wedging on a frail balance beam._

You took out another cloth-wrapped container out of your satchel, placing it on his desk without a word.

_It was tacit; that lunch was for Mr Malfoy. You made that earlier at the thought of him because of your plan._

The slightest quirk of his brows and a frowny smile made its way to his lips. You could have sworn your heart could run a mile on its own.

"So this is what the fuss is all about?" His voice lilted and morphed into a harmless condescension. What was it called again?

_Ah, sarcasm._

Words never failed you before, that's how you got your degree after four years toiling with essays and theses in restless nights. But when it comes to being confronted to a particular man with a platinum blond hair like tufts of _flaxen hair_ that fleets behind him as he walked? That prowess leaves you instantly.

_So much for having a bachelor's degree..._

"Thank you,"

_Woah._

You stared up at him in amazement. He stares back at you with an affirming light in his eyes. _You never heard him say thank you before unless if it's work-related._

On one hand, he cranked the levity as he unwraps the container as well. 

"This routine of yours," he starts, without bothering to look at you, _"are you demanding a raise?"_

_Ah, of course he would say that, that was the deal-breaker about this magnificent bastard._

That sharp wit that could cut through the most serious grief in a funeral service. 

That was not unknown to you.

You smirked up at him in a challenge, "Does it have to be a hidden agenda?"

The man then grinned lightly, _"Smokes and mirrors."_

* * *

New day, old plan.

However, an urgent meeting calls and demands for his presence that was written explicitly on a memorandum, by way of a flying paper crane.

He received it an hour before lunch break, and he won't be back in his office for a while. So you did the only option that was available to you.

As soon as he was back, he didn't bother a loud holler. He never seemed to be the type that would announce his arrival.

And he was met with his assistant, you. Head resting on your forearms that curled and hid your face from his view. You had the habit of napping when you were through with your tasks, that's what he picked up later on.

He saw something familiar on his organized desk that piqued his interest.

To which he knew without doubting his intuition that it was a neatly prepared lunch made by _you._

Out of all the things that transpired today, who would have thought that this was the gesture that would bring a small, genuine smile to his lips?


	4. Repression is often the best policy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I'm loud?" you said, sounding a lot more guilty than you intend not to be._
> 
> _"No, not verbally."_
> 
> _Just when you thought you already figured out Mr Malfoy wholly, he becomes more complicated in the next. This is why you hated college Calculus._

Sometimes, you prided yourself in the honor that Mr Malfoy, on many occassions, laughed or smiled at your jokes. Either because you were funny, or funny in a sense that you're just _miserable_ at times.

As denigrating as it gets, it was approval in its honest form. 

_Life is short, and it's good to make the small things count. Especially from a man like him._

You tucked the memories carefully somewhere within your heart, kept it there, serving as a _monumental reminder_ that other people are having a current scarcity of the rarest sight you could ever see on Mr Malfoy.

Especially now.

People cowered before him, gave him secret looks of disdain when he already walked past, and you could see how squared his shoulders are with his back straightened up like a meek prey on alert. _He knew._

Which could only explain why he rarely leaves his office unless if it was urgent and important. _He hated the negative publicity._

This was practically the first time you escorted the quiet man, so the unwarranted attention you got was handful. You didn't count how many, _it didn't matter while your mind is in an overdrive._

This must be why he would always urge you not to come with him in his meetings, and that he could manage for himself. He doesn't want the public eye to befall on you, too.

That somehow, the ex-Death Eater had a Muggle assistant, which only subtly portrays the dynamics at play, the _'pureblood-supremacy'_ that is now widely-frowned upon.

No, Mr Malfoy never treated you like a lesser being. He was utterly, _painfully_ human beneath those layers. If only people could see what goes on behind closed doors, and how endearing it was when he silently approved your little domestic routine for him. Then maybe, _just maybe,_ they would get an impression that he never mistreated you.

Maybe you could even go as far as into saying that both of you are a team.

_That's a bit naïve, but-_

You emitted a noise in a ragged puff of air when you collided softly onto Mr Malfoy's back. His robes smelled...

_Parchment, ink, toothpaste...no, mint? That's not right, and a bit of tea-_

"Are you keeping up?"

_Fuck._

You muttered, "My heels are killing me."

So he snorted at that. _No, he didn't._ He fell silent over your _somewhat-crisis_ and white lie when you were processing the scent you happened to catch a whiff of. Though, your mind's eye did interpret that as a dismissive snort - but that's Mr Malfoy, you don't particularly know him to be a facially-expressive man unless you both were in the office. 

_You already missed it there._

* * *

The basest virtue of a proper working ethic is punctuality.

According to the [anonymous] studies _(which you conveniently forgot but you subconsciously remembered as bits of attained surface knowledge,)_ it shows an impression among people that one values time-consciousness, professionalism, precision, and proper organization.

And if there were anything that Mr Malfoy valued the most other than binging off of sugary tea, or whether his Oxfords are polished well enough, _it was time-consciousness, professionalism, precision, and proper organization._

In that particular order.

The European representatives and Aurors happened to be late for a press conference in recent light of the arising problem of... _'Troll Control'._

Whoever thought that was a cheeky idea for a title obviously needs to get a grip.

You'd steal side-glances from him time to time, he wasn't bearing the neutral expression like he often wore when he worked. He was _frowning,_ a dark cloud obscuring your fondest memories with him when his forehead creases weren't as pronounced, and when he was relaxed.

_Geez, so intense. He could go and be the next Bruce Wayne brooding over like that. Give him a sore throat, he'll definitely win the Oscars._

"You're loud,"

_You're loud._

"I'm loud?" you said, sounding a lot more guilty than you intend not to be.

"No, not verbally."

Just when you thought you already figured out Mr Malfoy wholly, he becomes more complicated in the next. _This is why you hated college Calculus._

Now he turns his head at you to take a good look over your blanched expression, his arms crossed tightly. 

"You're loud," he repeats, "I could hear your thoughts."

The response was immediate, "You're telekinetic?" you gaped at him.

_Oh, the horror if he actually heard you all this time...and the time before that._

_And the time before that..._

_And the time before-_

_"W-why didn't you tell me before?"_ you said, sounding cheated, and disconcerted. "You could've given me a heads-up, then maybe you hadn't heard my thoughts about you if I could block it out - especially that one time when I thought about how your nails are well-groomed up close!"

Something nicked behind those cold eyes, a flicker. Was he disturbed? He didn't say it at once, but his scowling expression relaxed a bit.

"You do?"

_It sounded pretty painful to your own ears when he said it like an accusation._

He continues, "And, no, I do not possess the ability of telekinesis. Occlumency, on another hand, I am more adept with."

_Oh._

You sounded more embarrassed and defensive, "Then what do you mean about my _thoughts being loud?"_

He fought an amused smile, to spare your feelings.

_How sweet and considerate is that?_

_"Figuratively,"_ his throat had a scuffle, like he choked up on his own air intake which could have been a _chuckle_ , failing to desist from his own lips.

He looked away before he laughed at your pale expression, his lips pursed tight. The light in his eyes returned.

_"Like,"_ he starts, "when you're silent, and you're settling in your own thoughts while you look at me like that..."

_That rung a bell in your head._

Does he really know how to pick up on other people whether or not they're having an internal monologue?

_Hands down, that was astute._

He shrugs, "Well, from experience, I would know..."

_You're taking that back, that was a slightly cathartic confession._

How could that be a confession? This, you should know, after you have personally witnessed yourself how much of the silent scrutiny your boss receives at a basis from other wizards. _He would know, of course, that's why he's always tense when he's trudging down the halls of the Ministry._

"Oh," was all you managed to say.

Almost reading your mind - _or something akin to reading and picking up your thoughts anyway_ \- he returned his gaze at you and gave you this _odd_ look.

_"But it's different with you,"_

* * *

That stayed in your head rent-free, longer than you would have liked.

He said it like it was an inside thing that only the both of you could understand... _almost like a treasured secret._ If other people would have heard it out of context, it would have caused them a great deal of confusion. But the weight of his words and levity in his voice as he spoke that, it was almost...

_Reassuring._

_Thankful._

That you went against the grain and never acknowledged him the same way as the others did. That how you _think loud_ about him isn't as distasteful as the others when they stood out of Mr Malfoy's reach. Even then, maybe he already knew that you put him on a special pedestal.

You would be lying if your heart didn't do some manic jumping-jacks and cartwheels earlier. To begin with, _this shouldn't even be something you should overthink about._

He's a married man anyway, and he has a son.

_Know your boundaries. He's clearly off-limits...and old. And look at him, he looks just about half your age._

Or at least that's what the left hemisphere of your brain is telling you, doing its best to discourage you from finding him-

_Finding him what?_

Old.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I thought I wanted to share a brief verbatim on The Cursed Child which I thought was interesting and relevant to my fic.
> 
> _[HARRY: I can’t imagine what that was like._
> 
> _DRACO: Astoria always knew that she was not destined for old age. She wanted me to have somebody when she left, because . . . it is exceptionally lonely, being Draco Malfoy. I will always be suspected. There is no escaping the past.]_
> 
> I know that Draco was referring to his son, Scorpius. But just imagine his _deprivation and sorrows_ from lacking any external affection other than his son's.


	5. Wolves without teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The challenge of morale and ideas piqued him to counter yours with his own. To test your own capacity of coming up with your reasoning._
> 
> _"A comfortable life," Draco then takes a sheet of used parchment to fold a paper crane for himself. "Lifelong subsistence and happiness."_
> 
> _"I already have a comfortable life and the means of subsistence by working," you said without breaking your stead of certainty, "I am content with my personal pursuit of happiness and the pain that comes along with it. I'll embrace life as it is."_

Your boss deserves the credit of being observant, picking up on the slightest noise and strain of movements around him. How much more if its in an enclosed space such as his office?

Slow days hardly ever comes often in your job, and to occupy yourself, you took the liberty of clearing the disposed parchment papers from wastebaskets.

Draco would take a notice over your little habit, of course, but he makes no word about it - especially in your absent mutterings as you tallied your nth paper crane. Your purpose for reusing the papers? He clearly has no idea, apart from the assumption that you're doing it at the expense of your own amusement to pass time. 

_But what use do you have for a nine hundred and eighty-sixth paper crane?_

He's constantly curious, asks himself more often than not. He knows that you would find the job to be fairly tedious as much as the next person, having been stuck with paperworks and escorting him to Ministry hearings. But you, being his assistant, is it that overtly dull working with him, _that it compelled you to fold up your..._

_"Nine hundred and eighty-ninth,"_

"Sir?" you asked before you could blink, halting your own actions of creasing the paper crane neatly.

"You're losing count,"

Him having to take part in your little world always surprised you, but you always surprised him with the little things at most. _But he keeps that to himself, you needn't to know..._

Maybe it kept him human as much as it did to you - grounded, at most. For you to confide in him and casually relax in his presence despite of his past infamy as you go about in your oddities at a professional setting. Unbeknownst to you - even to him, on many occassions - you drew him in in your little world with such wonder.

To him, you were interesting, like a surrealist riddle. Perhaps, a breath of fresh air, for you to surround and engulf him in the comforting mundanity you bring upon. He knew he intimidated you as your higher-up, but never in the reasoning that he was one of the contemptuous and despicable Death Eaters in his time. But, he hoped, you already considered this thing of the past, so as you'd accept him as he is right now, _despite of it all..._

He smiles, "It's nine hundred and eighty-ninth. You skipped the count."

"Oh," you dried up wryly, "I kind of hoped it was nine hundred and ninety-first."

"If it were," he starts, "what use do you have for a nine hundred and ninety-first? _Much less a nine hundred and eighty-ninth?_ " he trailed off in the latter, like an afterthought.

"I have been working on this for months,"

_"I could tell..."_

And there was that stance of yours again, pursing your lips and readjusting your seat like you were about to say an interesting trivia to a child. "Did you know, there's a Japanese belief that goes: When you folded up a thousand paper cranes, a wish of yours could be granted, and luck shall come forth along with it."

_It was a trivia indeed._

Draco deadpanned, "In that case, you could have just strung up a djinn instead."

"Ooh, I know this one!" you tittered, "djinns are angry, vengeful spirits. And I'd very much like to have all my limbs intact, thank you very much."

_You always had something to say._ Sometimes, it made him smile to himself, or contemplate fleetingly as he worked on his desk.

Draco examines your demeanor like he always did. Every crack and pore, and slight movements of your face muscles that would indicate your emotions. "Opportunists would always risk a limb or more to get a hold of their wishes, like...getting a hoard of golden treasures."

"Well, I'm an opportunist too, Mr Malfoy." You chuckled at him, "But I'm not suicidal enough to chase the drive of greed. What use do I have for riches when I'm living my best life?"

_Almost everything, you could supply with words of such grandeur._

The challenge of morale and ideas piqued him to counter yours with his own. To test your own capacity of coming up with your reasoning.

"A comfortable life," Draco then takes a sheet of used parchment to fold a paper crane for himself. "Lifelong subsistence and happiness."

"I already have a comfortable life and the means of subsistence by working," you said without breaking your stead of certainty, "I am content with my personal pursuit of happiness and the pain that comes along with it. I'll embrace life as it is."

"Ah," Draco nods at your words stiffly, _"what if people had their fill of the pain they feel?"_

You stared dead into his eyes, seemingly as though the reality slipped and dissipated at the fleeting moment when you both shared the silence. Draco wished his unsaid words resonated in you, all left in the dark for too long. That you will figure him out as much as you watered down your philosophical judgements.

_"It's only too late to try when you're already dead."_

Draco's mind drifted back to Astoria in a whiplash, and his sweetest memory when he reached the pinnacle of his happiness when he first saw his son, Scorpius. He was proud, too elated that it made his heart ache and tear up while he held the infant in his arms for the first time.

Maybe that also went through the mind of his late wife before she had gone. The last sliver of happiness she could taste before she left both Draco and Scorpius.

Maybe Astoria hoped that Scorpius would carry and manifest the reminder of her love. Draco recalled the nights when both she and him laid amongst the rumpled sheets after they made love, thoughts running hazy and muddled due to the exhaustion seeping into their body and souls.

She would stare at her sworn husband, with child-like wonder as she carressed his cheek. Like she wasn't dying at all.

_Like they would stay in the nirvana in eternity as they savored their love for each other._

_Maybe it was the enchanted ceiling of their bedroom, but Draco saw the entire montrosity of the cosmos in her glassy eyes. It was beautiful._

_She was beautiful._

_Too kind and compassionate for his own sake._

_"I want you to be happy," she would say._

_"I already am," he would say back._

_Her smile - all too knowing - it scared him. He knew what it was, and what it implied._

_"Not for long,"_

* * *

"That will suffice, sir, we reached the thousandth mark."

"Is that right," he says, as though he wasn't thinking long and hard for a while. Your voice reminded him and tethered him back to the reality, "What's your wish?"

She blinks up at him, "A raise."

He laughs, voice as rich and deep, "All of this trouble for many months of paperfolding...for a raise?"

"Alright, how about you make a wish of your own?"

_"What?"_

"I'd like to share all the months' worth of my trouble with you, fair and square."

Draco knew the belief was ridiculous and unreal, coming from a Muggle whose expertise isn't solely magical as his. He knew it was one of the odd Muggle customs for the sake of ambiguity whether or not it was real.

He knew that this Japanese belief wouldn't bring his wife back to life.

_But as far as he was concerned, he wanted to be happy again. To carry out on his own with his son._

You were waiting, hands clasped together, "Well?"

He fiddles with the thousandth paper crane in his fingers, eyeing it.

_"I just wish those dragon hide smugglers from Norway would grow some sense."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My posts will be erratic one of these days. If you've been reading my fic up to this point, I am _veeeeeeery_ grateful and honored.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the chapter dedicated solely to Draco's point of view!


	6. Silver linings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Ah," Mr Malfoy says tauntingly after the momentary silence, "not as brave and daring as I remember, are we?"_
> 
> _"We'll see," Mr Potter turns around promptly to storm outside the office in his unmistakable contrite, with a dangerous air of hostility about him. It terrified you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning/s for:**
> 
> **•panic attacks**

You hoped his tolerance and patience wasn't running thin.

  
While _yours_ did, after the bus halted and popped one of its tires, making you lurch forward from your seat. You weren't taking this fate too kindly.

  
_Fate isn't taking you all too kindly as well._

  
_Fair enough._

  
That's how you ended up exiting the bus, waited for a cab as you kept tagging down. You looked beyond the road, and saw a barrage of vehicles stuck in a traffic. 

  
If you did manage to catch a cab, that's no way to get to the Ministry faster.

  
The sweltering heat didn't help you at all - _it's too stuffy for spring._

  
So the only option available to you was to walk.

  
_Not in those heels._

  


* * *

  


  
_You arrived at the Ministry sheen with sticky sweat._

  
Sweaty as in from the wet heat and moist air lingering around the air. As in _afterglow-from-sex_ kind of wet heat. You felt disgusting all over.

  
The sight of thick, cascading robes everywhere among the employees made your eyes water and itch. You wanted to tear it off from them because it looked humid - _you could practically feel it on your own skin._

  
But you couldn't bother getting all prissy right now when Mr Malfoy would need your presence at the latest to submit the appeal for Theodore Nott's investigation in custody.

  
_Out of all the days that you could've been late..._

  


* * *

  


  
When you arrived at the office, you were met with two people in particular.

  
Mr Draco Malfoy, the Head of International Magical Office of Law _(and your higher-up.)_

  
And the other, Mr Harry James Potter, the Head of Magical Law of Enforcement, the Chief Auror.

  
There was an inexplicable tension between these men seated oppositely. They were in the midst of a conversation - _a professional discussion, more or less_ \- but you could see how Mr Malfoy's face is taut in a marginal scowl.

  
It didn't take two guesses that both of them managed to get a rise out of each other, as if withholding some sort of unresolved grudge.

  
_"Late, are we?"_

  
You snapped back into reality, taking a stuttered intake of breath as you fumbled with your satchel when Mr Malfoy's voice cuts through the ever-silent room.

  
"The bus broke down," you simply said.

  
_"Very well,"_ Mr Malfoy says, and Mr Potter was now looking at the both of you. "Catch your breath. And you're in an unconventional luck and timing, because I certainly need those papers right now."

  
Mr Potter then intervenes, "I see, Malfoy, not even a citation? You're tolerating unpunctuality in your line of work."

  
You were red in the face, either from the exertion from running earlier, or the embarrassment you felt that made your stomach churn.

  
_Or the slight annoyance you feel from the black-haired man with a stick up in his ass._

  
_"I do not tolerate tardiness in general, but I'm willing to extend my lenience for her today,"_ Mr Malfoy retorted with a snarl. "My assistant is very punctual at most, and works dilligently with what she does best. She's under my wing, and you cannot berate her as you see fit. You heard her excuse, Potter."

  
Mr Potter was speechless; you were dumbstruck, a fumbling, erratic fool as you primly handed the papers you finalized for Mr Malfoy.

  
Mr Malfoy's words stirred something inside your welling ribcage, spreading pleasantly to your stomach when he defended you to the very Head of Magical Law of Enforcement. You could absolutely die right now in shock, and in elation, and in honor, and in-

  
"My words still stands thus, Malfoy. I'm the Chief Auror, and I'll be the one to investigate the suspect held in question."

  
_"Your jurisdiction will always be taken into account, Potter._ " Mr Malfoy whisks back. "And it is of no doubt that you have done a decent job of apprehending Theodore Nott, but I have been reviewing his case for months. Had it not been my call, would you have gotten the credit and glory out of it? I am the reason why your operation happened in the first place."

  
That's when Mr Potter stands up to square him up. Mr Malfoy didn't, but the smirk he wore was smug as he challenged and goaded Mr Potter into another minutes of heated argument.

  
As if struck by a realization, Mr Potter deflated when he remembers your presence, which silently observed the both of them, successfully blending in into the room like you disappeared into one of the lamps in the office. Mr Malfoy's nasty smile only broadened into one of sarcastic amusement when Mr Potter paled on the spot, having lost his own reins for a moment.

  
_Mr Malfoy was always a step ahead with his plans. He was as calculated as ever while he's so hell-bent on baiting Mr Potter into his game of testing each other's degree of temperance._

  
_"Ah,"_ Mr Malfoy says tauntingly after the momentary silence, "not as brave and daring as I remember, are we?"

  
_"We'll see,"_ Mr Potter turns around promptly to storm outside the office in his unmistakable contrite, with a dangerous air of hostility about him. _It terrified you._

  
Mr Malfoy was quick on his toes to follow behind him.

  
Before he left to catch up on Mr Potter, he turned to you, "Get those background evaluation on Theodore Nott by the drawers and prepare them."

  
You noticed the strain and agitation in his voice that it left you with no choice but to oblige. With a firm, wordless nod, you headed to the drawers filled with investigative archives on various international cases.

  
"And," he adds, making you look up at him and saw his faint smile, "I have a soothing salve on my desk if you need it."

  
He exited the room wearing that dashing, patient smile of his, tilting his chin towards your pair of red feet, inflamed due to the fact that you just walked on foot... _without your heels._

His concern affected you so much that as soon as he was out of your sight and earshot, you fell to your weakened knees on the carpeted floor, swooning as you rested half of your body battered from the exhaustion into the comfort of the plushy couch.

  
That was when you feel suddenly grow self-conscious: _Did you look too haggard? Too sweaty? How did you look like? Was he even mad at you?_

  
Especially the way his eyes flickered a bit from the hostile tension when he saw you entering the office. And most importantly, how his demeanor drastically changed from incensed, into something mellow when he saw you; an entirely different man - _like he was somehow relieved from the pressure the whole encounter with Mr Potter had offered._

  
_Had the man with the majestic flaxen hair grown a soft spot for you? For a mere assistant?_

  
After you recovered from the assault of giddiness you felt, you put the current matter at hand. 

  
What was it again?

  
_Oh. Right, Theodore Nott's files._

  
You twisted your body into an upright position, composing yourself as you yanked one of the drawers back with such a force that something appeared out of it.

_In a form of an abomination that made you jolt away in place though you've already been paralyzed from fear._

  


* * *

  


  
There was no doubt that Potter was going to take it to the Minister himself and grab the upper hand if he could.

  
Draco knew Potter already had the advantage, being the Minister's childhood friend and all. He should have anticipated that possibility and consulted the Minister first and showed her the documents.

  
It was a lost cause, so he retreated and decided to forgo the plan to appeal to the Minister, returning into his office with an irritated scowl on his face.

  
Which now morphed into a look of panic and worry when he saw you, lying weakly on the floor when you tried your vainest attempts to fight off a rabid, black hound with its maw wide open.

  


* * *

  


  
_It was the very same dog._

  
Horrifically identical to the one that attacked you in a compound at a private residence. It attacked you, bit a small chunk of your upper thigh that caused you to bleed profusely when you were a kid. It was that bad that the dog owners were forced to comply to a compensation after you almost died from shock, excessive bleeding, and rabies.

  
It never failed you to make your breath stutter in panic whenever you happened to see any dogs with black fur. Like the memory and the experience itself came back rushing into you like a bullet train.

  
You fought for your own breath when you already saw spots forming in your vision, your own consciousness caving in until it wrung every ounce of strength in you, doing your best to push off the dog. 

  
It never relented. It overpowered you then, _as it had now._

  
The manic hound didn't stop its persistent maiming, and its ear-splitting barks and howls, so as to recreate your ugliest memory of the past. Not actually intending to inflict any physical injury on you _(you noted acutely amidst your panic attack,)_ but to trigger your own childhood trauma.

  
At the hazy forefront of your brain, you heard a loud bellow. To scare the hound away. A voice, so familiar, so warm, you had to desperately swim and navigate your central focus into the surface before you could submerge underwater.

  
_You're not even waterlogged._

  
But panic attacks felt as though you were drowning in an endless abyss of vacuum.

  
_"Ridikkulus!"_

  
It was, indeed, _fucking_ ridiculous to begin with. How did a dog that big manage to fit into Mr Malfoy's drawers?

  


_It wasn't your mind's intention to create an accidental innuendo while you're on the verge of dying from a panic attack. Oh well, it's not the worst way to go, you supposed._

  
Oh, how you hoped he would be back very soon.

  


* * *

  


  
_How could a boggart manage to slip in into his drawers?_

  
Draco wavered back into his own thoughts as the boggart was now decimated from the powerful spell he casted. It brought him to wonder how the dog managed to scare you that much into your unconsciousness.

  
He tucked away his wand, now gently taking half of your body onto his lap.

  
Draco smoothed your hair back from your pale face, feeling your cold, clammy forehead in the process. He knew how it felt like, having to deal with panic attacks when he first tasted the terrible sight of death and rot.

  
Decades ago, when Voldemort urged the contempt of assassinating the late Dumbledore unto Draco, those were the moments when he started questioning the dogma he had to uphold, fettered and frail, as a teenage boy. What made him comply to Voldemort's best wishes was of Draco's own. 

  
He could never stand the sight of his own parents to perish and be humiliated in the hands of the Dark Lord.

  
He absently caressed the Dark Mark tattoo by the tips of his fingers, covered by the sleeves of his neatly-pressed shirt. He hated how it always reminded him of the past, and how there was no escaping it in any way other than turn a blind eye if he could. His father once had tried to escape his own fate by redeeming himself, after the night the parents of the _Boy-who-lived_ had died, and thought they were good as dead as _Voldemort._

  
And Voldemort is gone, but this time, _for good._

  
_"Wake up,"_ he urged gently by soothing your forearms, _"the boggart's gone."_

  
You writhed, winced at the soreness of your chest. You fought to open your eyes, sight still as bleary by the tears that resurfaced earlier from your panic attack.

  
You sighed, _"Oh shit."_

  


* * *

  


  
You vaguely saw a man, with long hair, surrounded with a halo that blinded you, its edges streaked by a spectrum of colors due to the effects of diffraction - _the bending of light._

  
You have just gathered your consciousness together and integrated them, piecing it together into a puzzle in hopes of waking up faster.

  
_If you had died then and Jesus Christ looked this beautiful, you would have gladly gone sooner._

"No, I'm not..." you heard his strangled laughter, _"I'm Draco Malfoy."_

  
_Oh?_

  
_Oh._

  
Mr Malfoy added, "Though, I _do_ thank you for finding me beautiful."

  
_"It's the Law of Physics,"_ you said with a voice so faint and paper-thin.

  
"Come again?"

  
You righted yourself weakly by reaching onto the shoulder pads of his crisp suit with your cold, still trembling hands. And somehow, the scent filled you senses again, reminding you of who you were, where you were, _and that Draco Malfoy was your boss._

  
_Especially, with that memory when you first got a whiff of his suit a week ago._

  
_Parchment, ink, peppermint, and tea._

  
_That was it._


End file.
